


Made

by thatotherperv



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Adults Seducing Minors, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Foster Care, M/M, Multi, Not!Fic, Underage Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension, douchebaggery is a valid kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2007-07-27
Updated: 2007-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-03 16:28:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5298269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatotherperv/pseuds/thatotherperv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel and Darla are married. And bored. And jaded. Think canon 19th century, only…human, plunked into modern-day suburbia. Did I mention they’re bored? And they’re not very nice people, in the end. So they adopt this boy.</p><p>Ohhh….should I tell you that this story I’m thinking of is Very Wrong? Very Very Wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> archiving note: this story was never finished, and actually, the only sexual contact achieved was Angel/Darla, Spike/Dru, and a whole lot of UST for the target pairings (Angel/Spike, Spike/Darla, Angel/Spike/Darla). I decided to move it over anyway because I love what exists - please keep in mind before you dive in that you will never get an "R" for the "UST" because this was abandoned in 2007. I hope you enjoy the UST anyway :)
> 
> originally posted [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=thatotherperv&keyword=Made%20A%2FS%2FDarla%20human%20AU&filter=all).

I’m going to do something I swore I’d never do. Writer’s Frustration™ has driven me to the point of desperation wherein I will begin a story with the extremely annoying narrative device:

I want to write a fic about William. Or maybe it’s Spike. And Angelus, though we’ll call him Angel, because Angelus is a stupid name for a human. And Darla.

See, Angel and Darla are married. And bored. And jaded. Think canon 19th century, only…human, plunked into modern-day suburbia. Did I mention they’re bored? And they’re not very nice people, in the end. So they adopt this boy.

Ohhh….should I tell you that this story I’m thinking of is Very Wrong? Very Very Wrong? Yes. So wrong, in fact, that the first time I posted this, it was filtered to only a handful of people. only now I've decided to post it publicly and I'm really hoping I don't regret it. Moving on….  


  
They adopt this boy. Or maybe they’re just fostering him. I really don’t care. The point is, William is fifteen and a half. Don’t blame me, Kari decided. He’s young. And he’s still William, mostly, but already begun to get all defensive and prickly…. His first few years in the foster system haven’t exactly been *kind*, and he’s got Spike-ish leanings.

He’s still a virgin. Mostly. Below the waist. But he understands that the world isn’t all sunshine and kittens.

Still, he’s kind of confused about why these people, with their nice car and nice house and life obviously not designed for the rearing of children, are bringing *him* into their home. He’s enough of a discipline case that his stupid dreams of being adopted and becoming a Real Boy have gone the way of his soprano choir-boy voice. Dried up around puberty, never to be seen again.

Except, he’s still got all that hope, buried down deep. It’s just wrapped up in a Teflon coating of suspicion.

Which is pretty much confirmed his first night home. Because the way Angel looks at him…it’s not very _fatherly_ , get it? And Spike (as he’s already begun calling himself) has seen that look before. Some day, he’s going to be sturdily built and strong-featured, but at the moment, he’s still…well…pretty. Pretty in a way that gives the wrong impression.

Or actually, the right one, but he’s still kind of on edge about the whole thing. The idea fills him with this buzzing fear and anticipation, and he might cock his brow and mouth off and pretend he knows everything, but really, he’s scared shitless.

So dinner is weird. Because the food is great, and they’re eating on _china_ , not out of plastic cartons in front of the tv. And they’re both being bizarrely nice to him. And Angel’s watching him with this little smile, and Darla is chatting to him in a way that sort of gives him the willies, because it’s so nice that he almost feels like she’s up to something.

After dinner, it’s still pretty early, but Spike is tired…going to a new home is always so exhausting, because he hasn’t figured out what they want from him yet, and all the pretending not to care wears him out.

So Angel shows him to his room, which is just down the hall from theirs. It’s a pretty big house, but it’s not a mansion or anything. Spike sets his bag down next to the biggest bed he’s ever had. The room is really big, actually, and when he checks, there’s an adjoining bathroom that also opens to the hall. He’s never had his own bathroom before, and it’s all a little overwhelming.

He turns to find Angel still in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching him with his arms folded over his chest.

And there’s something irritating about it.

“ _What_?”

Angel smirks and lifts his eyebrows, which only annoys Spike further. “Nothing. Just…wanted to help you settle in.”

Spike gets this weird prickle of the hair on the back of his neck, and without realizing it, his shoulders stiffen inside his leather coat. “Ta ever so, but I think I can handle it from here.” When Angel doesn’t move…when the smug expression doesn’t change at all, Spike feels another wave of irritation. “Some _privacy_ , if you don’t mind?”

And he probably shouldn’t snap at his new foster dad on the very first night, but the bloke is really putting him on edge, and anyway, it doesn’t seem to matter to Angel. He just smiles in a way that doesn’t really touch his eyes and points his thumb over his shoulder.

“Sure. You know where to find us.”

Spike feels really awkward. “Yeah. Sure. G’night.”

Angel shuts the door behind him.

So now Spike can really look around. His closet is huge, and it occurs to him that even when he unpacks everything he owns, it’s going to look absurdly empty, but hell if he’s asking them for anything. Good way to get booted, that. There’s a big desk, and a chest of drawers…this other cabinet job that opens to reveal the nicest fucking telly he’s ever owned in his life. Though he doesn’t own this one now. But it’s not alone. There’s dvd, dvr, stereo, and…holy fuck. A brand-new Nintendo Wii.

He stares at it for the longest time. That had to mean…did they buy that for him? He knew he was their first foster kid, and it seems highly unlikely that either of them gives two shits about gaming systems. Did they buy *all* of this for him? It wasn’t possible.

He closes the cabinet, and opens the compartment below, which is full of DVDs and games.

And it’s all a little much, so he closes that too, and sits on the bed. Pulls off his boots. The bed, he discovers, is the most comfortable thing he’s ever sat his arse on, and when he falls back onto the pillows, it’s heaven. He stares at the ceiling for the longest time, trying to decide what to make of it all. And his eyelids get heavier and heavier…one minute he decides there’s got to be a catch, and the next he’s asleep. Duster and all.

~*~*~*~*~*~

He wakes up out of a dead sleep hours later, groggy and disoriented. At first he can’t figure out why. He was having this really bizarre dream….

And then he hears them. Angel and Darla.

Fucking.

They must be down the hall in their bedroom, but they might as well be next to him, he can hear them so clearly through the walls. Darla is breathy and vocal, makin’ these little cries that have Spike’s balls tightening up against his body. His jeans are already tented…must have been a good dream, after all. He reaches down and palms himself, even though he feels like he shouldn’t…. They probably don’t realize he can hear them. They’re not used to living with someone else…it would be an awful invasion of privacy, and the poncy old William that still hasn’t gotten the picture most definitely objects.

But when a deep male groan sounds out, Spike can’t help rubbing himself. Angel says something to her, too low for Spike to catch anything but the rumble of his voice…and then Darla laughs a laugh that blends into a gasp…and then a wail…and the bed starts thumping against the wall so hard he can *feel* it from here…Darla and Angel panting and moaning louder and louder until Spike’s toes curl with the need to come. He reaches into his pants and bites his lip and then Angel shouts and Spike shoots his load right into his jeans.

And he’s still gasping and reeling when the sounds down the hall suddenly fall silent. He’s sticky. When he checks the clock, it reads 12:22am.

He sits up and eases out of his duster, because he’s bloody hot, but he’s sure as hell not going back to sleep like this, so then he strips and runs the shower.

Runs it hot. And he takes a long one. It’s posh, like everything else in this house, apparently, and clean. No mildew. And the heat just lasts forever. He leans against the wall and lets it run over him…closes his eyes and puts a visual to those sounds, drawing on every porn film he’s ever seen.

And then he’s hard again, because fuck-all, he’s fifteen and it doesn’t take much. And the idea of those two shaggin’ like rabbits in heat is plenty.

Takes himself in hand properly this time, and as he gets into it, he realizes he’s imaging himself in the bed with them. He whines in his throat. In his head, he’s between them, and Angel’s fucking him (he tightens his grip and pumps harder) and he’s fucking Darla. His hips buck into his fist at the thought, and he stifles a whimpery moan, because the first thing you learn in a group home is that bathrooms have acoustics that tend to broadcast private moments. Somehow he doesn’t think they’re gentle, in his fantasy. They’re teeth and nails and hard, unforgiving thrusts—

And this time when he comes, his moan is too loud.

But not loud enough to drown out the click of a door closing, or the noticeable draft of cold air.

He freezes guiltily, and yanks aside the curtain, but he’s alone.

There are towels stacked on the floor that weren’t there before. And the door to the hallway is unlocked.

He wipes the water out of his eyes and turns the taps. Later, as he lies in bed, unable to go back to sleep, he wonders whether it was Darla or Angel.

And how long they stood there, watching him through the translucent curtain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC, muse withstanding. sorry for the early style (which I personally have distaste for) but it occurred to me that the only time I've been able to play through a filthy scenario lately is when sharing an idea with a friend, so I figured I'd cut out the middle-man and get the ball rolling this way. and it worked. yay! dude, I have been one frustrated little bunny.
> 
> this will probably be heavy on the spangel, but there will also be spike/darla, angel/darla, and maybe angel/spike/darla, if I get around to it. yes, I know, scary het. but it will be filthy and hot. I promise, it won't hurt at all *grins*


	2. Chapter 2

ok then. It’s been a month and five days since I wrote the *first* part of this story, so where did we leave little orphan Spike. Poor, little orphan Spike, who is sort of prickly but a little hopeful, only a loner because he’s had to be, struggling to ~~make a buck~~ earn his keep in this work-a-day world?

ah, that's right. I threw him to the wolves. Bad me. So let’s summarize: he's been taken in by Very Bad People, got expensive toys (bought special for him?), spanked the monkey to the sound of his new foster-parents fucking on the very first night, petted the weasel in the shower to thoughts of more of the same, and now...

now he wakes up out of a dead sleep. it's pitch dark, and he's feeling all muzzy and sleepy, and when he looks up and finds Angel watching him from the door, it doesn't register at first. Angel is just a silhouette in the doorframe, backlit by the yellowish light of the hall, and he looks so _big_. Too big to be one of the kids at the group home, and Spike’s all disoriented. His thoughts are sort of muddled, or muted, as they would be if you woke up at 3am for no good reason.

Unless you consider waking up to find that your creepy new rent-a-dad watching you sleep a good reason. I’m just saying. Bloody creepy.

Anyway, Spike rubs at his eyes, and blinks, because fuck, what time is it, and the light from the hall seems too bright and he can't really see Angel's face but Angel must be able to see him just fine, and—

"Oi, what are you looking at. 'S a good way to piss a bloke off, waking him up and—"

Angel steps into the room, and closes the door.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Fooled you, didn't I? sometimes it's just too much fun to fuck with people.

Because see, what actually happens is, Spike bolts upright out of a dead sleep, gut buzzing strangely, a little sick, a little excited, and he's a little _surprised_ to realize that sun is pouring in through the blinds (aren’t _you_?), because he half-expected for the room to be dark and for Angel....

you did too, didn’t you, you sick bastard? What kind of story do you think this is? …oh. right.

but the door to the hallway is still locked, see. so's the bathroom. He’s the suspicious kind, remember? Especially after his accidental bathroom show, he locked the doors. And Spike should be relieved to find it was a dream, but the whole thing was just _weird_. and how are you supposed to be relieved that you had a wet dream about a creepy father-figure?

Unless you’re into that sort of thing, and Spike…never really thought he was. he was a bit of a momma’s boy, from what he can remember of her.

and the dream _was_ wet. the sheet sticks to his lap because he sleeps bare-arsed of course, and his face crumples up in disgust. At the moment he's ashamed of his cock for drooling over that tosser. bloke gives him the willies.

He's a little hard, but he will _not_ wank off again in the shower, because a man's got to have a little self-restraint.

~*~*~*~*~*~

He wanked off again in the shower. Although what else do you expect really, he's only fifteen and a half (again—not my fault, Kari decided), and no one has self-restraint at that age, not really. which is something he'll tell himself over and over again in the future.

At any rate, he's more than a little relieved that Angel's not around when he gets down to the kitchen...and though he had wished Darla gone as well, he realizes belatedly that it's just as well she’s here because he's _starving_ —probably from all the wanking—and it's always a bad idea to forage through the fridge your first day in a new foster home. plenty of people don't want your grubby little mitts on their food.

when he asks after breakfast, Darla acts like that was a horribly silly question and he can have whatever he likes, that this is his new home, but her smile is...disconcertingly genuine, and just a little too wide to be trusted.

They go shopping for school clothes.

Spike doesn't bring it up, Darla does. but he's more than a little relieved, because he starts at a new school on Monday, and from the looks of the neighborhood, his current wardrobe won't slide. He really doesn't want to be the weird kid straight off, though it wouldn't be the first time.

And the cool thing about Darla is, she doesn't try to steer him towards dweeb-wear or the clearance rack, or any other pitfall of shopping with people who are paid to keep you. they're the type of clothes he would have picked out for himself, except they're more expensive than anything he's ever owned. all the name brands. jeans and tees and button-downs, and she even buys him a new pair of boots. the ones he's dreamt of forever, not the crap pair he scrounged money for, that are all tight in the toes.

and to his embarrassment, in the middle of this shopping spree, it's William's passing thought that Darla is like the mum he’s always wanted. Since his went away. he kicks himself as soon as he thinks of it. it's stupid, and he shouldn't get attached...they'll get sick of him in a week and boot him back to the group home where he'll rot till he turns 18, and they'll probably make him give the clothes back as well. back to square one.

sides, she's too hot to be his mum. bloody hell, that's wrong. he tries to shift his package discretely.

Spike goes into one of the little curtained cubicles to try on a pair of jeans Darla has chosen for him, and a shirt he's picked. the jeans are too tight, and the shirt, as it turns out, is utter crap, but when Darla calls in to ask how he’s doing, she doesn’t wait for an answer before she slips through the curtain.

which…is…fine. it’s fine. She’s sort of like his mum now and that’s what mums do…it’s just he’s never had a foster parent so…involved.

except then her eyes turn down to his crotch (at the jeans...just at the jeans to see how they fit) and Spike feels his face heat a little, in spite of himself. He shifts his weight uncomfortably.

_She’s your mum, she’s your mum, she’s your mum, she’s your mum …_

She’s still staring, and she hasn’t said anything yet.

"They're too tight," he explains…because it’s true, and he has to say _something_ , and he really doesn’t think it would be appropriate to speak what’s on his mind, which is something along the lines of ‘bloody hell, woman, stop staring at my willy.’

But Darla just makes a little humming sound at that, and her eyes never lift to his face. her hands take his hips to pivot him around…just to check the fit across the seat, of course, but certain parts of Spike’s body don't get the memo, because checking the fit across the seat feels a hell of a lot like oggling his arse, especially when her hands brush over his cheeks, testing the material.

“I think these fit just right.”

And something about the way she smiles makes Spike _blush_ , though he’d swear up and down that he doesn’t do that. ever. “Did you—”

He stops short and they stare at one another for a moment, until Darla lifts a brow.

“Did I wake you up last night? I took a shower late, and….I heard a noise,” he finishes lamely. So bloody lame. Wanker.

“You didn’t wake me.”

Her eyes are steady on his, and her voice is disturbingly neutral…and he realizes that she didn't really answer his question at all.


	3. thatotherperv

Sunday is an oddly normal day. Spike is sort of expecting…well, *something* to happen, given the staring and groping and noisy sex that have thus far welcomed him into the Aurelius household.

So it’s sort of balance-throwing when Sunday passes with a boring and novel degree of normality. watching the telly and eating three squares and all that crap, and it’s almost enough to convince Spike that he was imagining all the dirty little bits of strangeness…but of course we know better, don’t we?

Told you he still has a bit of William in him. *pets*  
  
So the day passes quicker than he would have expected, and Monday comes early, alarm blaring in his ear at 6 in the fucking A.M., and he comes conscious with a block of ice in the pit of his belly and a feeling of dread and…again. As in, “here we go again,” and “not this again,” and “prepare yourself to feel like a big fucking freak…*again*.”

at least this time he’ll be a better-dressed freak.

When he’s sufficiently armored up and shellacked and fortified with a June-Cleaver-worthy breakfast, he drags his feet and his backpack into Darla’s car…

what would she drive, anyway? let’s say a BMW. convertible. powder-blue. Z3? Yeah, Z3. that might not be a cool car anymore, but whatever, fuck it. that’s what I see.

And Spike thinks, maybe…with the car, and the clothes, and the neighborhood and the parents, maybe this time will be different. Maybe he can stop mouthing off to teachers and being a discipline case. Maybe he’ll find some mates, and have a girlfriend…or something along those lines. Maybe he’ll be invited to parties in mansions with…you know, celebrities and champagne, or is it cocaine…whatever the fuck they do in the good bits of LA Spike has never been to and never really dreamed of.

Maybe he can get through his first day in a new school without getting his arse kicked.

But you know how these things are bound to go…staring leads to whispering, which leads to tittering laughter and manicured pointing, which leads to the new boy glowering and hunching and bristling, and when the inevitable dickhead-swaggering escalated to jeers and chest-puffing and cockney swearing…

Spike gets his arse kicked on his first day in a new school. Again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Angel is the one that shows up when the front office calls home. Darla is doing…whatever the fuck Darla does for a living. Let’s say she’s an art dealer or something. She did like pretty things, just look at Liam. But Angel’s unemployed or independently wealthy or…fuck, I don’t know. The CEO of a major corporation or a figurehead or…what-the-fuck-ever, the point is that Angel is the one that is reachable when the principal calls home.

I’ve always found it somewhat cruel and ironic that the kid that takes the beating gets sent home too. ‘cool off,’ my ass. but to be fair, Spike started it.

Yeah, you aren’t surprised. Neither am I.

so Angel shows up and sails past Spike without a word. Spike is hunched in a plastic chair, enjoying the lovely sensation of his face swelling like a corpse in the sun. He does give Spike _The Eye_ as he passes, though. And Spike slouches and scowls till that makes him wince, and pretends that the bile isn’t trying to rise up in this throat at the look of disapproval on Angel’s face. again. He’s always mucking it up. they’re gonna boot him, and take back the clothes.

but if they think they’re taking his new boots, they’d better think again. they’ll have to pry them from his cold, dead fingers.

he can hear muffled conversation as Angel talks to the principal. the tones are polite and almost flirtatious, and he flinches bitterly when he hears laughter. Course *they’re* getting along famously. Come from the same world, don’t they? Spike’s the one on the outs here.

probably having a lark over the fact that you can’t trust gutter trash like him, and how silly they were for trying.

the door opens, and as Angel steps out, his smile fades quickly into a moue of disapproval over the state of Spike’s face. he doesn’t even speak or gesture for Spike to follow, but Spike isn’t exactly wanted at the school, is he, so he sort of slinks after, like a dog expecting to be beaten but hoping for some scraps anyway.

and by the time they reach Angel’s enormous cock-symbol of an SUV, he’s pissed off about that, so he hauls himself up into the passenger’s seat and slumps with his arms crossed, bristling. Nobody’s victim. Won’t even put on his safety belt, not that Angel cares. He doesn’t spare Spike a glance the entire drive home.

Spike is halfway up the stairs to his bedroom when Angel calls his name like he expects to be minded.

For a long moment, Spike just freezes there, giving Angel his back and hoping he won’t actually have to go back down the stairs. The total, eerie silence is only broken by the ticking of the hall clock, and eventually he pivots, descending the stairs and passing the poof without looking at him, straight into the living room in muddy boots.

He stands in the middle of the room with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his duster, trying to look pointedly bored, even though his face is on fire. If he’s going to be given his walking papers, he’s going to keep his dignity. And his boots.

He doesn’t look at Angel as he approaches, stubbornly, even when the man is looming over him, standing inches away. Everything goes still, like time slows to a crawl. Spike can feel Angel breathing on his face.

The moment suspends…lengthens…so when Angel twists his fist into the front of Spike’s shirt, the action feels impossibly sudden. It happens too quickly to prepare him for the way he’s suddenly hoisted up till his toes barely scrape the ground…far too quickly to brace himself for the blow he takes full-on in the solar plexus, a big hard fist in his gut.

And it isn’t the first strike he’s taken there today, so the pain is bright enough to blind him. When Angel lets him go, it’s with a little shove, and Spike crumples to the floor, winded and shocked and any minute now, enraged. any minute now. an-y min-ute. he’s just got to get his breath, and process the fact that Angel is the type of bloke that hits. he’d missed that, somehow, in his initial assessment .

“Figures.”

Spike doesn’t even try to make sense of that as Angel moves away, shoes loud in the kitchen. he’s just rocking up to sitting again when Angel tosses an ice pack in his lap. Then a tea-towel.

“Put that on your face.”

“Ta.” He sounds as bitter and scathing as he can with a lip that’s swelling up, and it hurts to glare, but he does.

Angel sits on the couch, and Spike lets out a little groan of relief as the ice settles on his aching flesh. Eventually, he can’t ignore the way Angel is studying him.

“What, you wanna kick me while I’m down? May as well, while you’re at it. Here. I’ll make it real easy for you to boot me in the nuts.”

Angel doesn’t really look impressed…amused, maybe, and when his eyes drop down to Spike’s theatrically sprawled legs, the lifted eyebrow makes Spike feel about three inches tall. Not to mention, a tad exposed. He pulls his legs Indian-style and looks away, face resting on the ice pack heavily.

“How did this happen?”

Angel doesn’t sound angry or disappointed, really, just sort of…well. Spike looks at him, but he’s just watching passively. “There was a bloke.”

Angel says nothing, and Spike can’t take the silence long, of course. He’s already on edge enough as it is, and nothing about this really makes sense. Angel hit him, but now he’s acting like nothing’s wrong. “He said something I didn’t like, so I told him to get stuffed, and….”

He shrugs the rest off. the story told itself.

“What did he say?”

Spike stares at the baseboard along the bottom of the wall. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Was it worth it?”

Spike is sullenly silent.

“You’re too small to mouth off like that.”

Spike straightens. “Oi!”

“You’re too small to mouth off like that,” Angel continues, ignoring him, “when you don’t know how to hold your own. If your little _ragdoll_ impression was anything to go by, you probably didn’t even put up a fight.”

Spike’s cheeks turn a shade of pink that’s probably invisible under the developing bruises. he hopes. “I can hold my own,” he grumbles, but he can’t look Angel in the eye.

Angel doesn’t move, except to sink further into the couch. he gestures lazily with one hand. “How does that feel now?”

“Never better.” He doesn’t quite pull off the sarcasm because the split in his lip tugs as he talks. He winces, and winces harder at what that does to his cheek. Bugger.

His eyes are watering, so he doesn’t notice Angel getting up until he’s standing over him, extending a glass for him to take.

blind, he thinks it’s water until the burn of the whiskey bubbles back up with a choke, searing his sinuses.

When the coughing and sputtering and tear-wiping subsides, Angel is watching him like the smug bastard he is, mouth hung in a little smile. When Spike eyes the stuff suspiciously, Angel gestures. “Drink up. Have you feeling better in no time.”

It feels like a challenge, somehow, when it’s said with that look…when Angel’s already implied that he’s a pathetic little wanker that can’t even take care of himself. The liquor makes Spike’s eyes water and his throat burn, but he tries determinedly not to choke again, gulping it down in great droughts until it’s done. Angel’s watching the whole time, looking ever so amused.

The drink spreads warmly from his belly out through his limbs, finally going to his head so that he feels woozy and pleasantly numb.

“I’ll teach you everything you need to know. Christ knows we have the time to get in the basics, with that stunt you pulled. They want me to keep you home all week.”

“What the bloody hell are you on about?”

His tongue feels all thick against the floor of his mouth, and heavy.

“Fighting,” Angel clarifies, but Spike’s still pretty sure that doesn’t make sense, because Angel’s meant to be angry he was fighting, wasn’t he? He’s definitely meant to be angry, but he’s not, and Spike’s head feels a bit heavy, and full, like his brain’s grown three sizes.

Then Angel turns the tv on, and everything goes a little fuzzy for a while like maybe Spike falls asleep. He wakes up to the sound of murmuring. Darla’s home, and then she’s poking at his face with something that stings, and his head throbs a little. They say something to him, or each other, but he was so deeply asleep, and his dreams were bloody.

Eventually he stands and drags himself to his bedroom, ribs aching, and his face, Christ…he’s still fuzzy from the liquor but it throbs, dull and insistent.

He crawls into bed carefully, shedding his clothes and settling his bones gingerly, trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt. Eventually, he settles for the fetal position and curls around his bruised middle. The pillowcase, with its high thread count, feels too rough against his cheek, but he pulls the covers over his head, and it’s not long before he’s out again.

He dreams he’s running away from someone. But then the world shifts upside-down, and they’re running away from him, instead.


	4. thatotherperv

So, we left Spike in quite a state last time, didn’t we? and by we, I mean me. I’m a sadist at heart, I swear I am. Unless you consider that I’m identifying with Spike and therefore revealing my masochistic tendency. Hmmm. What a conundrum.

At any rate, the poor thing got beaten at school, then punched in the gut at home. Then his foster dad liquored him up and didn’t even have the courtesy to molest him (…you were all quick to point that out! you perverted hooligans…).

he had a somewhat prophetic and obligatorily metaphorical dream about ~~continuing the cycle of violence~~ learning to stand up for himself.

Which he obviously wants. But given that Angel’s going to be his teacher, I imagine they’ll butt heads over the process, don’t you? *snickers* sorry, you’ll get that joke later.  
  
So, the way I figure it, it’s inevitable that Angel chooses to wake Spike up in a fairly mean and rude fashion. After all, he’s a right bastard, and he’s seen Spike’s soft bits now. well…not _those_ soft bits. The other ones.

Pick your poison. Either he yanks the blinds open, or tears the covers back (and hmm, is Spike naked? I sort of left that open for interpretation. Naughty naughty Mel), or…yeah I couldn’t really strike upon the perfect way, but any way you slice it, I don’t imagine Angel letting him sleep in and giving him fresh-baked cookies when he wakes up, you get me?

So Angel’s a bastard, what else is new. And Spike is cranky, which again, with Angel…what else is new.

Spike, of course, tries to yank the covers over his head and burrow back under, because Christ, his head hurts, inside and out. The press of the pillow into his cheek makes him wince away in pain, which only accentuates the way his head is throbbing from the whiskey.

It’s his first hangover, you see. What you have to realize is that he acts like a bad boy, but he’s not _really_ a bad boy yet. Give him a few years and he’ll be making with the booze and the sex, but as yet he’s fifteen and a half—kari is forever my scapegoat on that one—and he’s stuck at the leather-and-nailpolish stage of rebellion.

Rebellion-Lite, if you will.

Where was I?

Oh. yeah. So, Spike tries to burrow further in, whining piteously to be left alone, and Angel, of course, doesn’t let him. He pulls the covers back, and…okay, Spike’s not _naked_ , but there’s some boyflesh.

*cough*

and Spike's a little too hung over to be self-conscious at the way Angel's eyes take in the sight, but not so hung over that he doesn't drag himself up, pull on a t-shirt, take a piss and brush his teeth with his head propped up in his hand against the counter and a little stream of toothpaste drooling out, and Christ, someone's banging a gong behind his eyeballs.

So Spike comes out of the bathroom and Angel tells him they’re going to begin the fighting lessons that day, and you can guess how well _that_ goes over. Spike is in _pain_ , and isn’t shy about saying so. His eye is tender and his mouth feels swollen and awkward, and his left side hurts every time his rib cage moves with an exhale and an inhale…not to mention a slight case of nausea. and of course, he says this in the vulgarest way possible, because he’s _Spike_ , talking to _Angel_.

but the whole time what he’s _really_ thinking is that he’s bound to feel worse tomorrow, because Angel’s going to spend the day beating the living snot out of him in the name of teaching self-defense.

Bloody sadist. He rubs the fresh, painful bruise on his tummy. And thinks, secretly, that this turn of events is, at least, consistent with the way life has treated him so far.

he loses the argument, of course (par for the course, inevitable, really…). Angel doesn’t give a fuck _how_ bad Spike feels. he needs to be able to hold his own no matter what, and if he’s going to let a few bruises slow him down then no _wonder_ everyone thinks he’s an easy target, because he is. And Angel’s more than happy to give up before they even begin if Spike wants to spend his life…blah blah…better things to do…blah blah…miserable failure…Spike only tunes in for every 14th word and sometimes not even those.

But what really ticks him off is that he can’t argue with that logic. Well, he _can_ , and he _does_ , but it’s feeble at best because Angel’s right.

Part of him shudders at the thought.

Once Spike’s been harangued into starting the bloody lessons, he’s surprised to find that Angel barely touches him all morning. Makes a bloke suspicious, really. Spike keeps waiting for the bit where he gets hit, but it never comes. Angel demonstrates stances and basic drills, and for now, he teaches him by the book…teaches him strict technique, and playing by the rules. The dirty stuff will come later (and I just heard several of you chuckle, you sickos.)

The closest thing to impropriety is that….as it happens, Angel has his shirt off. because that way, Spike can see precise body position and…you know…whatever. It has absolutely nothing to do with sex. uh-uh, nope. Just two guys, doing guy things. It’s not like it’s a _distraction_ , is it? they have all the same bits. Except Angel’s a bit taller. and broader. and…thicker. and he’s all sweaty and toned and…graceful in a _manly_ sort of way, and when he moves, his muscles sort of

…yeah.

And Spike appreciates that as much as much as we do, boys and girls. Which of course, just makes him feel more self-conscious and defensive, because he feels like a sodding girl when he blushes. Which he can’t help but do when Angel comes over and makes little adjustments to his posture and stance, and Christ, he really does have big hands, and big…everything…and when Spike thinks that, his eyes drop lower and Angel sees (and smiles) and Spike…Spike blushes. Poor thing.

But they train hard all that day, so hard that by the time they’re done, Spike is thoroughly shagged out…er…knackered. His muscles feel like lead, and his body hurts in so many ways, and by this point, he’s decided that all of them are Angel’s fault.

It’s also Angel’s fault, he assures himself, that it’s Angel he’s thinking of when his hand closes around his cock. It’s a simple matter of proximity or authority or…something. Yeah.

Whatever. He can’t help where his mind goes.

The next day, gentle readers, is much the same. A couple more and Angel introduces some minimum-contact sparring. He wipes the floor with Spike’s face repeatedly, but for Spike, that’s just incentive to try harder. And slowly Spike starts to admit to himself that Angel’s a complete wanker, but he’s a wanker that knows what he’s about and the little kernel of fear and fascination turns into a sizeable kernel of respect, though he still mouths off because he’d rather die than show it.

But we get that Angel notices anyway, right? Crafty old bastard.

The point is, Angel’s not at all what he expected. Not in the slightest. Which gives Spike pause, when he stops to think about it, which he only does once, briefly, between the moment Angel takes him in a hold designed to immobilize him while providing the leverage to break Spike’s neck, if Angel wished, and the moment he collapses on the floor as Angel lets go. It makes him wonder where a rich boy like Angel learned all this stuff, and why he needed to know. Not like _he_ ever had a rough day in his life and it _was_ a bit suspicious, wasn’t it, and

“Where did you learn all this crap, anyway?”

it isn’t a question he would have asked out loud if he’d given it any forethought, which he didn’t…didn’t give it much afterthought either, come to that, but it doesn’t matter, because all he gets from Angel is a blank-eyed stare and a few strategically un-pulled punches when they’re back on the mat.

Did I say minimum-contact sparring? Yeah. only so far as it suits Angel’s purposes, and it doesn’t suit them far. Better to throw the kid in the deep end and watch how he swims.

and Spike reckons he’s getting better, but you wouldn’t know it from the way Angel talks. Bloody hard on a bloke, he is. Been training hard for days on end, and still, everything has to be just so. Always has to be faster, harder, cleaner than Spike’s managed. Spike’s always the disappointment, one way or another.

And on the fifth day, Saturday, Spike finally snaps. Angel just needs to get off his sodding back. he’s still learning and doing a right fine job of it if you ask him—brilliant, really…considering—and he’d thank Angel to appreciate his progress, because in fact, some day—

He’s too wrapped up in running his mouth to interpret the tick in Angel’s jaw, but actions speak pretty loudly when he’s slammed face-first into a wall, arms pinned behind his back at an awkward angle between their bodies.

Ow. Ow. Ow ow o wow. Spike struggles for all of 10 seconds before the muscles of his shoulders ache with the strain of his arms. When it’s clear that won’t work, he goes almost brattishly limp, till it’s up to Angel to keep him upright. It hurts more, but there’s satisfaction in being dead weight, which is something he’ll have to remember in the future.

And Angel’s pushing him into the wall hard, and talking too close in a tone that Spike _feels_ more than hears. Spike’s focus is on the heat and the rumble, the air puffing against the back of his neck and the solidness of that body, and the words aren’t important, really. He only catches the talking points, which are mostly to do with disappointment and arrogance and the distance between sparring rings and back alleys, and the application of knowledge, and….

It’s not a move that Angel has taught him, but when the back of his skull slams into Angel’s face and brings his little speech to a halt with a thwapping crunch, the satisfaction far outweighs the pain. Moreso when Angel swears and releases him, stepping back to cup his face.

when he pulls his hands away, they’re blood-red. Angel stares at them with disbelief, and then his eyes tick up to Spike

and something about the way they narrow gives Spike a distinctly sick feeling, as though perhaps he should have taken the lesson being given and called it a day without trying to get his own back in return. Angel holds all the cards here and the last thing Spike needs is to be known as the kid that…

His chin hitches a little higher at the thought.

But even so, the pounding of Spike’s heart feels loud in the quiet room. Everything’s too still. Angel’s eyes tick back down to his hand, and then his tongue darts out to catch the trickle of blood still creeping from his nostril, and then…his face sort of cracks wide open and his chest starts to rumble, and it’s not until he throws his head back, adam’s apple bobbing, that Spike realizes the tosser is *laughing*.

He’s laughing, loud and free and throaty, and he claps his bloody hand on Spike’s shoulder and laughs some more, swiping more red away with the back of his free hand.

after a few tentative, confused chuckles, Spike is laughing too.

And by the time they wind down, Angel’s arm has insinuated itself around Spike’s shoulder and pulled him close against that sweaty body, but it seems alright—chummy—and Spike is light-headed with laughter and relief and this strange feeling that he suspects has to do with the way Angel’s still smiling at him.

“You might learn yet,” Angel says, tugging him into a near-headlock, and there’s enough pride in his voice that it sounds like high praise.

something swells in Spike’s chest.

And at dinner, Angel tells Darla all about it, and he still sounds proud so Spike doesn’t mind that he makes it sound like beginner’s luck and a possible fluke at that. because Angel’s still smiling.

Angel changes the subject and his face relaxes, but Spike’s attention lingers on him…trying to remember what that smile looked like, and yes, composing a line or two that he’ll never write down…until Darla notices.

She catches his eye and lifts one fine brow, and Spike is effectively jerked out of his reverie. His eyes drop quickly to his plate, head ducking to hide the burn of his face.


	5. thatotherperv

There’s something missing from this story. And that “something,” I’ve decided, is a hot tub.

Blame my sister’s house for the inspiration.

Because Angel likes his creature comforts, right? And there’s nothing more…comforting (?)…than a hot tub. And then there are those promo shots David did. It’s a recipe for teh pretty, I tell you.

Probably also a recipe for teh naughty as well, but I like teasing the animals. I poked a badger with a spoon once.

Five points if you get the reference.  
  
um…what the hell was I talking about? Oh yeah, the hot tub. Well, somehow or another on Sunday, Spike and Angel end up in the hot tub. don’t give me that look, they have swimming trunks on. and it’s, you know…completely innocent. Spike’s all sore from the training and he’s going to school the next day, and…you know…Angel can be a nice guy when it suits him. and seeing the boy all smooth and slick? I’m sure that suits him just fine. and I’m not going to pretend like Spike’s all chiseled at this juncture, because that just doesn’t fit, right? I always wonder in human AU sometimes, how he’s always chiseled, even when he’s…

ok, whatever, I’m getting off-track. my point is, he’s still veal, and he’s got that lovely metabolism all young creatures have. not a bad thing to look at. and, you know…Angel notices.

No shit, you all cry.

Spike kinda notices that Angel notices…he’s been self-conscious of that from the beginning, if you’ll remember…but even after all the chumminess of the week and _especially_ after his moony little moment the day before, the sizing-up flusters him a bit. in a William-ish sort of way. but the way he covers it up is, of course, all Spike.

“What the bloody hell are you looking at?”

yeah, that’s our boy.

And of course, this doesn’t throw Angel off at all. he sees it for what it is, and when he shoots an apparent non-sequitor back, he does it in such a way that gives Spike the distinct impression that it’s correlated.

“You know, you never answered me…what did those boys say? to start that little scrap you had.”

he makes it sound like puppies tumbling—which Spike resents—but the threat or implication or whatever it is that he hears in Angel’s voice gives him a sinking feeling in his gut, and they hold gazes for a moment. Spike breaks eye-contact first, of course.

“Why does it m—”

“I’m gonna take a shot in the dark and go with…fag. Faggot. Queer. Fairy?”

at first, the words feel like a slap, and a hard one…Spike is unaccountably unprepared for them. which is stupid, really, he learned a long time ago to keep his guard up, but he thought they were sort of…mates now, and Christ, that was stupid.

stupid, stupid, stupid.

And the flat derision in Angel’s voice as he rattles off those _words_ just makes the anger build until Spike’s jaw is clenched and flexing, and when he shoots to his feet, he’s not sure whether his intention is fight or flight.

He never finds out, because before the water even finishes sloshing against the side of the tub, Angel’s got an iron grip on his wrist, and he can’t do either.

“Sit down.”

“Fuck off.” it’s a mockery of Angel’s measured tone, but it ends with a rather undignified wince as the delicate bones of his wrist grind against one another, harder still until his knees buckle, and what do you know…he’s sitting.

“Stay.”

Spike scowls as he yanks his hand away. He waits until it’s hidden beneath the turbulent water to comfort himself by rubbing the bruised flesh.

“What’s next, begging for treats?”

The curve of Angel’s lips causes something ambiguous to coil up tight in Spike’s belly…fear, arousal, curiosity, apprehension. Anger. All of it. “Maybe later.” Angel shifts back into his seat and studies the side of his face, arms sprawled out along the rim lazily…apparently confident that Spike’s done with his snit, which shows what he knows. “I’m guessing it’s happened before.”

Spike sighs out through his nose, annoyed at the conversation, but when his eyes tick briefly to Angel, the man’s face is neutral. He stares at the brick of the house and shrugs like it means nothing. “You could call it a recurring theme, sure. ‘S just because I’m….”

When he trails off, Angel cracks this smile, and Spike tenses, not really sure what to make of it. it’s not warm like the other…it’s mocking, but not cruel.

“A pretty boy?”

When Spike blushes straight to his hairline, Angel laughs in a similarly ambiguous way, and for once, our boy is too embarrassed to even mouth off…least, not before Angel opens his big trap again, lips still curled in amusement.

“Wanting to fuck men is no sin, William.”

The words feel sick and icy when they hit his gut, chased by a wave of undefined badness. “It’s…hang on, just because they say—”

“Don’t lie to me.” And how is it, Spike wonders, that something so quiet and calm can seem so threatening. It surprises him again, and cuts him off at the knees. The denial falls away and his eyes drop with it, and it’s probably the quietest he’s been since the day they got him.

For a while, the only sound is the hum of the jets and the slosh of water. He can feel Angel looking, so he turns his eyes slightly the other way, studying the ripples of the water and the texture of his hand beneath the surface. He’s scared to look anywhere but down, and he’s about to stand and bugger off to the privacy of his room, Angel be damned, when Angel gets all conversational.

“You know who plays by the rules, Spike?”

another non-sequitor. Christ, does the man have ADD?

More confusing to see the expression on Angel’s face…earnest and expectant and this has to be a trick question, right? A set-up, or…Angel doesn’t seem like the kind of bloke that wants a canned answer but…. “Uh….”

“I see you’re having a little trouble with this one, you being a little dim. Stupid people. Stupid people follow the rules. Weak, stupid people. Are you weak and stupid, Spike? I’m still on the fence about that one.”

and alright, Spike’s jaw is gaping a little bit, but the protests are all jammed in his throat, fighting to get out but caught there, all jagged. Yeah, I know. give him a break, he’s still a little bit William, remember? never met anyone quite like Angel, and he’s still trying to learn the rules. or…maybe he’s not meant to learn…bloody….

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Angel leans forward, and something makes Spike’s heart pound. It’s not lust, really. It’s more like…Angel knows something. There’s something Angel knows that Spike doesn’t, and he’s just now catching on. and he wants it. he wants whatever it is that makes Angel Angel.

“Do you think I ever gave a _fuck_ if anyone knew where I wanted to stick my dick?”

Angel holds Spike’s eyes and for a suspended moment that’s all Spike can see…and _then_ comes a pulse of lust, all wrapped up and tangled in with envy and jealousy and admiration and just… _wanting_. whatever Angel can show him.

And then Angel pushes himself to his feet with a slosh, grabs his towel and wanders back into the house like he didn’t just up-end Spike’s whole world, and Spike sinks back into the water that grew too warm for him 30 seconds ago and wonders what in the hell just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi, I'm totally flying by the seat of my pants with this fic. haha. I have nebulous ideas for plot, but really, it's a spur of the moment developing thing.


	6. thatotherperv

The light in the room is dim. it gives a sense of anonymity, but not the kind that comes from being in the system, isolated and lonely…this time, it cloaks them securely together, and there’s something about the novelty of it that aches.

the cock is becoming familiar in Spike’s hand. He thinks it must be the darkness…it makes everything more intense…indelible. His heart is pounding just as much as the first time, but the hitch of the other boy’s breath sparks a little glow under his breastbone.

They don’t kiss, and Xander doesn’t touch him back. he’s a bit more shy, Spike thinks. but he quakes when Spike touches him, fist curling and bunching Spike’s shirt. clings and shudders when he comes all over Spike’s fist, and gives him a sweet, shy smile over breakfast the next day. they never talk about it…it’s special. almost asking to ruin it, if you say it out loud.

Spike’s half gone for the sod, he is.

they’re young, but they know what goes where, and when Spike slides down Xan’s body…when he brushes his lips against the soft flesh he’s never seen, only felt, he’s scared as hell.

but then there’s a whimper in the dark and it feels like flying.

he uses his tongue on skin that’s heavy with salt, the body under his twisting and bucking in little false starts, but it’s when he blunders into that small dip, that little slit …that’s when it happens. The noise. This unreal little cry. Spike probes with his tongue and Xan freezes for an instant, and then…

It’s broken and gorgeous and soft.

but not nearly soft enough. One of the other boys in the room stirs. Spike has this horrible epiphany that they’re fucked just before the light flicks on, blinding.

but it’s Angel’s face he sees when he looks up. Angel’s hands. Angel’s cock. And it’s Angel who speaks, with flat eyes:

“Do you think I ever gave a fuck?”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Gah. Yeah. that was a dream, for those just tuning in. Spike’s got baggage, did I mention that? you’d have baggage too, if the first boy you ever loved did what Xander did when they got caught. And you’d _definitely_ have baggage from everything that happened after that.

Ahem.

Poor little lamb. But Angel’s gonna make it all better…right? He’s always struck me as the nurturing type, our Angelus.

Yeeeah, so…needless to say, Spike doesn’t sleep very well, the night before he goes back to school. He’s had that particular dream before, but it seems even worse now that Angel’s made a guest appearance.

Spike wakes up with a hollow chest and a distinct feeling of rejection that has nothing to do with his memories. Something about the dream seems a bit…prophetic, and….

 _that_ is _daft_. he shakes it off.

still…he’s quiet all day. He and Darla don’t speak in the car on the way to the high school, and he makes it through the entire morning without speaking to a single soul. The scowl is a little off-putting, as are the shoulders hunched protectively in the big black coat. It helps that tongues have been wagging about Spike’s unexpected rage just as much as they’ve been wagging about how badly he got his ass kicked afterwards.

Nobody’s really sure what to make of him. which works just fine, because Spike’s not sure what to make of _himself_. Angel does, though. Darla has some ideas, as well.

So he makes it to the final bell. The strange looks and hidden laughter have built up inside all day and he’s feeling more than a little bitter, and more than a little sorry for himself.

You remember what it was like at that age. Every day is the end of the world as you know it.

He’s not all that eager to get outside with everyone else, so he ducks into the men’s. and he’s not _hiding_ in there, precisely, he’s just…sometimes a bloke just wants a little peace and quiet and there’s nothing wrong with that.

And while he’s in there alone, Not Hiding, a girl walks in. yeah. a girl walks in. startles the hell out of him, too, especially because she’s so… _delicate_. just a little slip of a thing, and she’s pale, which he now sees as odd in southern California, and her eyes are big and…mesmerizing, and even more strangely, she’s looking right at him.

and ok, he was having a _private_ moment, so can you blame him if he stammers? but when she lays her hand on his cheek, it’s warm and soft and she smiles. He can’t explain it, but it makes something loosen inside of him and it makes his face soften, and there’s an unmistakable fluttery feeling.

(we know who this is, right?)

she leans in close enough to speak in his ear and his hands stutter up, unsure whether he can follow his instincts and touch her. In the end, they drop back to his sides.

“I’ve been watching you,” she whispers, and her accent sounds like home, and it warms him. “Naughty puppy. You’ll grow up to be a big black dog just like Daddy, but first, Daddy must punish you. Wants to taste, and you want to be tasted.”

and Spike would probably wonder what to make of that last part but the girl’s hand has skimmed down his chest and is currently cradling…fuck, and it’s really a wonder he’s still breathing. Her fingers give a gentle squeeze and the heel of her hand gives a little rub, and by the time Spike is done shuddering and biting his lip and trying not to come, she’s gone.

That night at dinner, Spike is in a world of his own. Angel ignores him utterly, but he doesn’t really notice, and he’s equally blind to Darla’s intent looks.

That night, they fuck just as loudly as they did the first night. When Spike touches himself, the movie in his head is a strange mix of Angel and Darla and that girl…that…he wishes he knew her name. she’s the one he’s thinking of when he comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh, yeah. bit of Spike/Dru in this fic, apparently. hahaha. hope nobody minds. fanged four’s not complete without her, right? Plus, I sprung a plot. Sort of a half-baked one, but here we go, wheee!
> 
> The main focus of this story is still spike/angel/darla.


	7. thatotherperv

so. our boy's met Dru. we can guess what happens next, right? he's smitten, of course. and suddenly it doesn't matter whether everyone at school thinks he's a wanker, and suddenly it doesn't matter if Angel gives him a disapproving look, and the gay rumor pretty much takes care of itself because Dru has this habit of cornering Spike in public and having a taste of him with or without permission (in a strictly PG way, of course...and do we really think he says no?). at that age, people assume that sexuality is either/or, and Spike's new fashion accessory makes the case for him.

they become the new alternative power couple, except with more infamy than actual power. this, actually, suits Spike just fine.

never mind that he suspects she's a little daft. he tells himself she's just...special. touched, in an extra-sensory sort of way.

and lord, does Spike want to touch her. it's damn near all he thinks about.  
  
which makes him a slightly less focused pupil to Angel, you understand, and roughly twice as cocky. and Angel, of course, _loves_ this. by which I mean, he dresses Spike down once and once only, and when Spike talks back, he clocks him. Spike comes back up laughing, and Angel subtly rewards this by decking him again and then kicking him when he’s down.

instead of beating the insolence right out of him.

the bruises don't really hurt Spike's street cred.

life goes on like this for a while—scrapping with Angel, and trying to unravel the eternal mystery that is Dru (which looks suspiciously like snogging her).

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

it's a regular night of the week...let's say, Tuesday. Spike arrives home from school an hour late (three guesses what he's been up to), but he's got an excuse or two handy to appease Angel, if need be. he's expecting a bit of a fight, so he's a little confused when he checks all the likely places and doesn't find the old man. in fact, the house is dead silent. he's alone.

Angel's always home, so this is...odd.

but whatever. Spike finds himself a snack and flips on the telly and puts his boots right up on the coffee table because there's no one to stop him, and if the old man isn't around for once, he's going to kick back in relax. Angel acts like he's in bloody boot camp.

But the truth is, Spike's pretty much bored before the first hour is up. when Darla gets home at half past six, it’s all he can do not to greet her at the door like an eager puppy yapping at the sound of the garage.

Spike doesn’t really like to be alone, if you couldn’t have guessed.

Now you may have noticed that Darla’s been conspicuously absent from young William’s life lately…it’s by design. Angel _does_ like to play his games, and Darla far prefers toys that are a little more…broken in, so she’s letting him take the lead in this new sport of theirs.

But that doesn’t mean she’s keeping her hand out entirely. Seducing one mere child isn’t nearly enough of a challenge for her boy…even if the quarry is as hard-headed as this one. She’s got to keep things interesting for him.

And Spike, for his part, is still wary of Darla. She’s colder than Angel, somehow, which is really saying something because Angel isn’t exactly a warm and fuzzy bloke. They don’t really talk except to decipher what they’re having for dinner, because Darla doesn’t seem like the kind you can chat to.

She’s not the kind that cooks, either. They order in. Thai.

So they’re sitting at the table in near-silence, with all the cartons strewn around but the food is meted out onto the china because Darla does have her standards, and Darla is completely at ease with the lack of conversation but Spike is positively twitchy.

And they only ordered enough food for two, granted that one of them is a teenage boy which means they really ordered enough for three. But it’s clear that Angel won’t be home for dinner, and not a word has been said about his absence.

Spike has the uncomfortable, passing thought that maybe he won’t be back at all…maybe they’re splitting up and he’s going to be left with Darla here, which is better than the group home, but….

Eventually he can’t take the wondering anymore, and he asks.

“He’s away on business until Thursday.” She says it in a breezy way that doesn’t at all match the way it makes Spike feel.

“…Business?” That’s news to him. In the month or so he’s lived there, he has never once seen Angel lift a finger in a money-making venture. And he’s always home.

“Mmm.” Darla agrees vaguely but doesn’t offer anything new, and a few more minutes pass in silence before Spike is itchy with curiosity.

“Didn’t think Angel worked.”

His eyes are busy on his plate, so he doesn’t see the twitch of amusement on Darla’s face.

“Come now, _Spike_ , you’re a bright boy. You didn’t honestly think my dabbling in pretty pictures paid for all this.”

Well…to be honest, that’s _exactly_ what Spike thought, because how the blood hell is he supposed to know how much Darla makes as an art dealer? He has that nebulous concept of money that comes from being both young and completely devoid of the stuff, but he feels a little stupid when she puts it like that, so he falls back on his favorite stratagem of denial.

“No,” he huffs out. “Course not.”

Darla smiles, and Spike shovels food into his face, and the room feels heavy with expectation and silence until Spike drops the other shoe.

“What does he do, then? Doesn’t seem to do much.”

“He’s in finance,” Darla assures him.

Which means sod-all to Spike.

He frowns. “Like…a banker or something?”

“Or something,” she agrees with a too-innocent tone. “You could call him a private lender.”

This sounds about as interesting as toast to our boy, so he doesn’t inquire any further, and they sit in silence for the remainder of the meal.

Except something about what Darla told him doesn’t fit. He circles around and around until finally, it clicks.

“For a money man, he can throw a mean punch.”

It’s possibly not the kind of thing you say out loud, but Spike is Spike and Darla doesn’t look angry, just smug. Her plate is clean, and when she leans in, he thinks she means to get up and leave without a word. Instead, she gives him an answer that doesn’t sound like an answer at all.

“Money has influence, William, but _fear_ is where the real power lies.”


	8. thatotherperv

Dear, dear readers. I enjoyed all of your speculation as to what dirty things Angel and/or Darla might put our sweet and innocent boy up to next.

But let us, for a moment, think back to those days of yore when we ourselves were horny teenagers with our first boyfriend. or girlfriend, as it were. your love was exiled cruelly to stolen moments, dismally _vertical_ moments, in all-too-public places.

and then your parents, or her parents, or his parents—hell, a _friend_ ’s parents—someone, _anyone_ , went out of town, and left their house (full of privacy and soft, horizontally-oriented furniture) in your dubious guardianship.

Ahhh. _Now_ you understand what happens next. I saw the light dawning behind your wicked little eyes.

All those tempting, lonely hours between the last bell and Darla’s late home-coming. What _is_ a boy to do?  
  
He’s feeling a little jittery, truth be told, as he lets himself through the front door. Dru’s clinging to him from behind like a wraith and he nearly drops the keys before they’re in the lock, but he swaggers when he walks.

But Dru’s his princess, and the posturing doesn’t run deep when he’s with her. There’s no need…she sees him as he is, even if she expresses it with metaphors of caterpillars and flames and “tiny white lightning that goes tzzt tzzt tzzt.”

So when she wanders blithely towards his bedroom without much in the way of coherent conversation, he follows. And when she has a meaningful conversation with his rotating fan, he nonchalantly kicks his dirty underwear under the bed. And when she grins like a Cheshire cat and pulls him onto the mattress, he thanks the god of horny teenagers everywhere.

She’s so tiny that he’s still almost afraid she’ll break if he holds her too hard. his hands just skim along the filmy material of her dress, gentle and soft. She purrs like a kitten, which makes him smile against her mouth.

Never met anyone like her. There’s an innocence there that’s enticing in contrast to the jaded bluster of the kids he’s lived with all his life. Like he can let his guard down.

And it’s _fun_. They kiss and roll and pet and nip and tease, and it’s all so light that he’s almost distracted completely from the aroused short-of-breath feeling that’s inevitable.

He’s a romantic, our William.

But even Spike, _prince_ that he is, can’t ignore his baser instincts when a delicate hand cups him just so ( _just_ so, and if he were any more savvy he’d wonder how she was so good at this), and his forehead drops to her shoulder and suddenly he’s so very winded. Especially when the tips of her fingers slip low between his thighs in a move that makes something in him shiver.

He lets her roll him onto his back and then she’s unbuttoning his fly and ohmydearsweetgod it’s really happening and she’s got the whole world in her hands and all he can do is kiss her with an fervently distracted intensity as everything spins faster and faster and higher and brighter and—

the door swings open and Angel is staring and—

Dru’s hand twists and strokes and Spike comes.

(do you know why young animals ejaculate so quickly? it’s so they can get the job done before the older alpha kicks their ass to the curb. I thought you might find that interesting)

and the room is anything but silent, afterwards, because Spike is wheezing like an old consumptive and Drusilla’s giggling madly and Angel leans against the doorframe, very calmly, and says

“Well, I see you’ve met my niece.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

oh, Angel’s appearance wasn’t a figment of Spike’s fevered imagination this time, in case you were wondering. Spike _wishes_. no, he was there, in the flesh. yeah. yeah, I’m evil. you’re welcome.

You can imagine that Spike’s Afternoon O’ Fun is cut pretty short after that. Angel tells Dru rather fondly to run along, and she flits off without so much as a post-coital kiss. Spike is left to share what remains of the afterglow with Angel, which seems like a dubious honor at best.

And Angel sits on the bed like he owns the place (which, to be fair, he _does_ ) and waits patiently for Spike to snap out of his shock and tuck his cock away in a panic.

Now is not the time to have your tender bits flapping in the breeze.

The room smells like fresh jizz, Angel looks _way_ too father-knows-best, and hang on a tick, did Angel say Dru was his _niece??_

Yeah. Yeah, he did.

“I uh…we were just…I was just….”

“Getting a quick handjob from the apple of my brother’s eye?”

Spike stares blankly. Angel smiles pleasantly. The one lone brain-cell not knocked offline by the recent power-surge blinks an urgent warning.

“Was she any good?”

And the one lone brain-cell dies with a popping sound reminiscent of a burned-out bulb.

“I’m…sorry…what?”

“Did you enjoy yourself.”

What you have to understand is that Angel looks so _solicitous_ that Spike is completely unable to get a bead on the best answer under these circumstances, which leaves him, unfortunately, with the truth.

“Uhh…yes?”

“So she was good.” There’s a lift to the sentence, followed by silence so thick you’d expect to hear coughing and shuffling in the audience. “She lived up to your expectations?”

“Erm…yeah, I—What the bloody hell—”

“I was just wondering if I needed to call my nephew for a little compare-and-contrast,” Angel deadpans.

“I…don’t….”

“Men are better, in terms of technique. Now, our Dru, she’s special, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t shop around, weigh your options….”

This, finally, is enough to bring Spike sputtering out of his catatonic state. “Don’t talk about her that way, you pillock.”

“No need to get offended, William. I was merely saying that women are lovely creatures, but men offer something else entirely. Now take me, when I was your age I was quite the little homophobe, never would have dreamed of letting another bloke suck my cock, but things change. And the first time I fucked a man—”

Spike is barely hanging onto the thread of reality when Angel sighs nostalgically. And when Angel’s palm comes to rest on Spike’s stomach, it’s somehow not overtly lecherous or suggestive or really anything but friendly and almost _fatherly_ like an arm slung around his shoulders while he imparts this wisdom but Spike’s muscles jump beneath his fingers like he’s been burned. and the longer it rests there, the more color rises to Spike’s face.

and elsewhere. A boy Spike’s age can get hard upwards of 20 times a day (and another 10 or so at night). Just a fun fact.

But not that fun for Spike, who blurts out “I love Dru.”

Angel smiles and Angel’s hand gets warmer and there’s a fair amount of condescension in his voice when he says “Sure you do.”

His hand strokes back and forth, back and forth…comforting or exciting, it’s anybody’s guess. The moment before it becomes officially creepy, it’s withdrawn and Angel stands to walk out.

“If you need a hand with anything, just let me know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BWAHAHAHAHA. I wrote this at 3am last night because apparently my brain decided it was time, and I almost posted but decided to reread for coherence this morning :)


	9. thatotherperv

Wow it’s been a while on this one, eh? I think I needed my distance, to reread it after the wax had cooled and fall in love with it all over again. because seriously, I’m in love with this story. I think even the style has won me over, even though I hated it when I started. my apologies to Spike for my neglect in wandering away from his predicament. Poor thing.

so where were we? ah yes. Got caught making out (etcetera *cough*) with Drusilla, and found out she was Angel’s zomg niece!

Understandably, Spike doesn’t show his face for almost a full 24 hours after The Incident. I’m sure we can imagine why. Having your major male authority figure (who you also…kind of…sort of…secretly want to fuck) find you in a compromising position with his niece and then have him give you advice on your bisexuality while touching you in a possibly inappropriate way?

Yeah, I’d hide too. He doesn’t go down for dinner. 

he also doesn’t get out of bed for school the next morning because he can’t bear the idea of facing Dru…and nobody comes to retrieve him and insist he attend. The day goes on and soon enough the hunger that’s inevitable when you haven’t eaten since 11am the previous day turns to a dull ache and later still, turns to an empty, dizzy feeling that makes him sort of nauseous.

He gives up the ghost and decides to venture down to the kitchen to get something to eat.

The house is still, and when he opens his bedroom door it’s completely silent. But it doesn’t entirely surprise him (just horrifies him, for one heart-stopping moment) to find Angel in the living room with a newspaper when he sneaks down the stairs.

He enters the living room and Angel says nothing to him…doesn’t even look up from his newsprint…so Spike walks on through, unobtrusive.

He’s already in the kitchen when Angel speaks. Dryly, like he’s got Spike’s number. “You’ll want the plate we saved from dinner, I imagine. It’s in the fridge. You really shouldn’t starve yourself that way. Can’t afford to get any scrawnier.”

And Spike completely bypasses any outrage about *that*, because he’s so unnerved by the complete lack of *anger* in Angel’s voice. He pauses with his hand on the refrigerator door. There’s something wrong here. The whole thing reeks of wrongness, this behavior of Angel’s, and Spike wonders what could possibly be coming. What the catch is, and if it involves washing their hands of him and sending him back to manufacturer like a broken toy.

He turns away from the fridge and paces back to the living room, pausing in the doorway. Angel ignores him, and his stomach clenches.

“This isn’t right.”

Angel looks up from his paper with an arched brow. “What’s that.”

“You’re meant to yell at me. Hell, I’d expect _you_ to hit me.”

Spike sounds almost angry about the fact that Angel hasn’t done so, and all Angel can do in response is smirk. Yeah, you know the look.

“And why is that?”

Spike’s arms flail in a frustrated manner. “You shouldn’t need to ask me that either. What the bloody hell is wrong with you?”

Angel sets down his paper, and the full attention Spike receives has more than its share of amusement. “You know, I could ask you the same thing.”

“Yesterday….” He can’t even say it. Still a little too Victorian (though born a century too late) to keep up his bluster when confronted with such a direct look. “And I ditched today and you expect me to believe you don’t even care? Expected you to cut my balls off.”

And, because he’s *such* a bastard, Angel’s eyes run lazily down to Spike’s body and linger before they return to his face. “I think we’ll leave those where they are for now. As for school, there’s not much value in anything you’ll learn from books…or the half-wits that run that place. Go often enough to skate this side of truancy, and I couldn’t care less what you do.”

Spike feels the inexplicable need to argue about book learning and the value of a good education, but when he opens his mouth the words won’t come out. which is a good thing, because even he recognizes it’s daft to turn down a free pass like that

“As for ‘yesterday,’ I don’t know what you expect me to be upset about. I had a girl or two in my time. Actually, a hell of a lot more than a girl or two. There was this one time when I was 17 where I….”  
  
and by the end of _that_ story, Spike feels bamboozled right out of his objections. Not to mention, horny. And more than a little inadequate.

~*~*~*~*~*~

But that doesn’t mean that it stops bothering him, and you know our boy can’t hold his tongue. Angel puts Spike to work in the training room, but his fighting is crap because he’s so distracted. Angel keeps landing body blows and he’s on the defensive all the time.

“It’s just strange,” he finally says.

“Not really. Your stance is sloppy and you keep leaving your left side open and—” the kick he connects to Spike’s left side sends him stumbling back. “you’re not paying attention.”

Spike stumbles to a halt. “’S not what I mean and you know it. You don’t act like a proper parent.”

Angel’s smile is white and sharp. “There’s not much virtue in being proper.”

And Spike takes just a moment to riddle that out like Angel’s the fucking sphinx, but eventually shakes it off because there’s no use hurting himself and his knickers are firmly in a twist. “You’re meant to ground me for fighting. You’re meant to yell at me when you catch me getting…getting wanked off under your own roof, and you’re meant to _kill_ me when the girl doing the wanking is your niece. You’re supposed to make me sit in class for eight bloody useless hours of my day, and gripe at me when I don’t do my homework, and—” The momentum of the strange, righteous anger is strong. “—you’re supposed to tell me that I don’t know what I want and I’m too young to know if I’m gay, and you won’t have that under your roof—”

He takes a deep breath, mind catching up with his mouth. Fuck. Can’t believe he actually said that last part. Angel is studying him, head cocked. His face would be blank if his eyes weren’t so sharp. Spike’s outrage sputters out with embarrassment.

It startles the hell out of him when Angel steps close and lifts his chin with two gentle fingers. You’d think the gesture is one of kindness and sympathy, but you’d be wrong. He looks too…angry around the eyes. Frustrated. Exasperated, disappointed, hard, cold. Spike can’t quite identify what it is, but it sends a chill down his spine and it takes some convincing to avoid taking a defensive step back.

But Angel’s voice is even and neutral. “How about instead of doing what I’m meant to do, I teach you something useful. Something about how the world _really_ works. I’ll teach you how to be the wolf instead of the fucking sheep.”

Spike swallows and starts to speak, but he can’t. The words stick in his throat. _Yes. God, yes. Teach me that._

Angel taps him under the chin. There’s a note of warning in his voice. “Quit playing by their rules. Mine are better.”

More of an order than advice, and there’s nothing to say to that. When Angelus dances back and takes a swing, Spike jumps back into their earlier fight and ducks.

Later, when Spike’s sweaty and exhausted, Angel looks him dead in the eye and says, “Speaking of the rules…we’ll set a new one since you’re so eager to have them. Porn’s in the last cabinet by the tv. If you take it to your room, I expect you to return it.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Is there a subtle way to tell someone where the porn is kept? If there is, I haven’t found it…and Angel’s not about subtle in this case anyway. Spike’s so jumpy on the subject of teh g-a-y that Angel’s main joy in life is blunt mortification. So, yeah. no subtlety.

Even so, it’s a good week before Spike screws up the courage to open that cabinet. He’s too afraid of someone wandering in while he ogles the titles with half a stiffie. And there are…a lot of titles. From Desperately Horny Housewives to Bohemian Boys.

That night Spike takes one of the het films…though his hand lingers near the *other* films for quite a while. When he pops it in his DVD player, he cranks the sound way down…still shy of getting caught.

He’s halfway through—in all senses of the word—when Angel and Darla begin to fuck.

It’s not the movie he gets off to.

T(not)BC


End file.
